


a Valiant Remedy Drabble 001: Mossberg

by Tafferling



Series: Valiant Remedy Drabbles [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Original Work
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drabbles, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tafferling/pseuds/Tafferling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Valiant Remedy is set in the six months in which Chris Redfield lost himself to drink and grief after the disastrous outcome of his team's deployment to Edonia--  and what would have happened if he’d run into someone just as lost as him.</p><p>And this is my dumping ground for Scenes/Drabbles that might or might not make an appearance in Chris' and Sadja's road trip adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a Valiant Remedy Drabble 001: Mossberg

**Author's Note:**

> Sadja is a terrible shot, and Redfield thinks to remedy that, taking her to a private gun range he used to frequent during downtime in his time with the BSAA.

**MOSSBERG 500**

* * *

 

The big metal beastie rolled to a stop on the gravel, crunching it all underfoot— or underwheel as things so were. Sadja’s eyes flicked from the wide windows to Redfield leaning over the steering wheel in front of him.  _ Rumble-Rumble _ the beastie went around them, and some lady was coming around like a wrecking ball from the radio. 

“Okay,” he said eventually, yanked the key out and choked the lady off mid sentence. The beastie fell silent.

“Just us here,” he murmured, and Sadja thought he was talking to himself, rather than her.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Redfield? Am I that much of an embarrassment?”

He grunted. The  _ don’t make me say it _ grunt, the one he’d perfected the last three months. Now he was just adding the finishing touches to it, the bit of finesse that made her lips twitch up. 

“Scram,” he said and Sadja did as told, unbuckling herself and bumping the door open to slip out. 

A squat building stretched out at the other end of the empty lot. Forest pushed in from both sides. Thick, lush green. Tangled and weedy. Sadja stood quietly for a moment, enjoyed the almost silence of the place, until Redfield marched past her, a gigantic duffle thrown over his shoulder, along with two large carrying cases somehow balanced on one shoulder and in one tightly clenched hand. All of that was bloody heavy, she knew, but he didn’t care a lick as he carried them over towards the door. 

“Coming?” He threw a look over his shoulder before he carefully set the cargo down and started digging for a key. It was a tiny thing attached to a flimsy looking tag and it took him two tries before the door finally admitted them and he could shoulder it open. 

The inside smelled of metal, oil and wood. Sadja sniffed at the air, shoved her hands into her pockets, and followed Redfield after he’d locked the door behind them again. This time she picked up one of the cases, ducked her head under the strap, and lugged it along with her.

A long counter stood by the left. And playthings covered every wall. The deadly sort. Big ones. Small ones. Long muzzles, short muzzles. They seemed ordered by the type of delivery method for all things unpleasant, and maybe a bit by era, judging by how they went from shiny metal to weathered looking wooden stocks.

Redfield placed his duffle and his carrying case on the counter and rounded it, started doing whatever it was he had to do with a piece of paper and pen. While he did, Sadja padded over to the wall. She snuck her hands behind her back, interlaced the fingers at the base of her spine, and leaned forward to peer at a row of pieces.

It looked relatively old, with a fully wooden body almost, the metal parts dark and oily looking. Used. Far as comparisons went, this one was as close to the long reaching Rangers back home as they’d get.

“That’s an M1 carbine,” Redfield educated her from the counter. 

Sadja felt a nudge of heat against her. The Furnace was enjoying that, wasn’t he? She craned her neck at him. 

“Bolt action. They’re pretty old, were used in World War Two,” he added, looking at her while he stood hunched over the piece of paper. “Pretty sweet pieces.”

Sadja’s shuffled left, placing herself in front of another row of weapons. They looked different, made entirely of metal. 

“FN FAL,” the Furnace informed her. “The BSAA outfits some of thei-- our branches with them.”

Her chin went up, to the next one in the row and tried not to feel for him as he’d tripped over him and them and us.

“SIG fivehu—“ He paused. “540 or 550, beats me.”

Sadja heard the pen roll over wood behind her and how he gathered up his toys again. She trailed along him as he started down the long hallway, her eyes still on the weapons. Whenever she paused just long enough to indicate interest he’d tell her what she was looking at, and when he said “Mossberg 500” she could hear the smile he carried. 

“I’ve got one with me. You’ll like it.”

He was holding open another door he’d unlocked.

“I will? Aren’t you being awfully cocky there thinking you know what I’ll like?” Sadja stepped past him. He puffed air at her in response and followed her immediately, his hip brushing up against her.

“I’ve got an  _ inkling, _ ” he said, mocking what would have been her choice of words, most like. “Not much aiming needed with those. They spread nice.”

Amusement lapped up against her gates when she jabbed her elbow into his side, though she knew better than to argue. No point denying she was an abysmal shot. 

Redfield led her through a busy backward. Not busy with people, since he’d been right. It was just them here. Busy with shacks that he navigated them through. Warnings glared back at her from every corner, and rules were printed on every second wall. 

Something about federal and state laws, about obeying some range master, and that he’d have every right to inspect your firearms, ammunition and whatnot. She found herself told to treat every gun as loaded, not to point them at anything she didn’t mean to deliver violence to, and to never load or unload anything outside the shooting lane. There was more, things about clearing and whatnot, but she found herself disinterested rather quickly and decided to watch Redfield as he found them whatever he’d been looking for. 

A lone shed farthest away from the main building, it seemed. It offered shelter from wind and sun and had a counter at the front, which was split in a group of three sections, a net dividing each. Redfield placed the case and duffel he carried in the centre area, and Sadja hefted hers up, too. 

Then she padded in close, placed herself by his left, and watched him unpack his toys. 

“Here’s the Mossberg,” he told her as he popped open the latches on the biggest of the cases. The thing was damn long and looked awfully heavy as he placed it on the green felt padding on the counter. A mat black monster it was, with not a hint of shiny metal in sight, looking rather evil just lying there. Then he went for the second case and removed another mean looking piece that looked familiar from when she’d first laid eyes on him— down on the ground with a corpse pinning her down.

“Looks like the one you pointed at me in Edonia,” she mused and tapped a finger against the stock. 

“Huh? Oh. No, that was a G36. This is an M4.” 

“Dear me,” she turned her eyes up at him. “How could I ever get that wrong?”

His muddy blue eyes held a gentle glint in them. Amusement and a hint of affection, she liked to tell herself, though at this point she wasn’t sure if the latter was directed at her, or the guns. She made room for him when his hand ghosted against her side, gently nudging her aside, and watched him complete what she could only call a ritual of sorts.

Like any ritual, the careful setting out of these deadly things worked a sort of magic. He looked awfully neighbourly as he stood there with a relaxed roll in his shoulders, and a focused but serene expression on his otherwise stern features. His hands moved quickly and with practiced ease, placing two small sidearms out along with the other weapons, and then turning to stacking four different boxes of ammunition by the edge of the booth. 

Next he picked up the Mossberg thing, pushed a finger against a button by the trigger and pulled back the long slide. An empty chamber slid open and the Mossberg was put back down. The M4 came next, which he hefted up quickly, then yanked back a lever at the top and turned the weapon sideways. A quick look showed him that was empty too, and Redfield moved on to the two sidearms. Click. Slide. Snap, rinse and repeat. Then he pinched three magazines from the duffle, two small, one considerably larger. All empty, but he remedied that, and started snapping matching bullets home. 

Sadja watched it all, the swift movement of his fingers, not once pausing because he knew what he was doing and could likely do it all in his sleep if presented with the need to.  And she thought, with a pang of regret, that this was what he lived for. This was his comfort, what held him together, what made him who he was. A deeply rooted drill that he’d lived with for too many years to ever be able to let go of it. 

_ ‘You sad creature...’ _ His burden was an unending one, even if he’d have liked it not to be.

She removed the simple, grey shirt he wore, the lax pair of jeans and the set of sunglasses dangling from the collar of the shirt. Replaced it with his uniform. The confines of his duty, the bloody hell of his life, full of loss and regret and— Sadja clicked her teeth. 

Whatever hardship might come with all of this, today was different. The Furnace still burnt, but it was a slow and steady flame. Controlled. Warm. Protective. She drifted closer to it, drawn in like a moth to a flame, and at the movement of her shifting towards him, his eyes snapped to her.

“Okay, you ready?”

“Mh,” she hummed and enjoyed the twitch of his lips.

“What was that?”

“Yessir.”

“All right. Pick one.” He folded his arms. Watched her. 

She pointed at the Mossberg, earning herself an approving noise that stayed trapped somewhere in his chest. 

Of course she didn’t get to committing violence to the empty air right away. Instead he wandered off, came back a moment later with a man shaped piece of paper, and walked downrange with it. He propped up a stand of sorts, tacked the paper to it, and when he came back the gentle and affectionate expression had been wiped clean off his face. What was left was stern professionalism, all business and no play.

He picked up the thing, quirked a brow at her, and when he seemed certain she was paying attention, tapped a finger against the button he’d pushed earlier.

“Slide release. Push that—“ he did, pulled back said slide, revealing an empty chamber on the side of the gun. “And get a shell in. This one’s your first shot, goes right into the barrel.” He picked up a red cylinder from one of the boxes he’d prepared, and popped it into the waiting chamber. Then he yanked the slide back up and the chamber closed with a sliding clack. Now he’d twisted the thing with its belly up to her, revealing another chamber. 

“And five shells in there. Go on.”

Sadja reached under him and pulled the box of shells toward herself. She pinched five and then mimicked his motions, sliding them in one after the other. 

“Good girl.”

Sadja’s jaw flexed at the pinch of distracting heat in her belly or somewhere there abouts. 

“Now, I don’t have to tell you about general gun safety, right? Don’t point it at anything you don’t intent to shoot. Especially not me, even if you’re itching to, all right?”

She nodded.

“Keep the muzzle downrange, all times. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to pull it.”

She nodded again.

“Good stuff.” He placed the Mossberg back on the felt and produced two earmuffs from the duffle. 

One he snapped on his own head, making himself look ridiculous with the big bulbs of metal casing protruding from the side of his head, and the second pair he settled gently around her ears. He wiggled them a little, careful and slowly-- and suddenly Sadja found herself encased in an almost absolute silence. She blinked up at Redfield and caught a sly little wink from him. He mouthed something at her, a string of words she’d have loved to hear, if only so she’d know if he earned himself a cuff to his nose. 

Then the hint of jovial goodwill fell away again. Play over. Back to business. Always the spoilsport, that one.  

He picked up the Mossberg. Pushed the stock against his shoulder. 

“Eyes front,” he said— so she could still hear him, though very muffled. 

“Lean forward. This thing kicks.” He demonstrated, bracing himself with a wide stance and propping his torso forward.

“Look down the sight, squeeze.”

Even with the muffs on, the crack was downright deafening. She felt the air displace around her, too. The ground even gave a little shudder. And she’d seen how the weapon kicked in his grip, ever so slightly shifting into his shoulder. His muscles had tensed when he’d fired, and the whole picture of him with the damn thing held so tightly felt all too right.

A whiff of acrid smoke drifted towards her, the scent of violent death. 

Redfield didn’t lower the weapon. He pumped the slide. Fired again. And again and again until all six shells had gone downrange. The thing looked a bit like a toy in his hands, and somehow Sadja doubted she’d be standing that steadily herself.

“Your turn,” he proclaimed, before he flipped something on the stock of the weapon and folded it in, effectively making the whole thing a little shorter. A hint of smoke curled from the tip of the barrel. The smell of spent gunpowder hung heavy in the air now. 

He placed the weapon down and offered her an encouraging nod. 

“My turn,” she echoed and mimicked how he’d loaded in the first shell before clumsily holding the weapon belly up and feeding it another five. 

Then she bumped it against her shoulder— at which Redfield pushed the barrel upwards, then nudged her elbow in and eventually just went and snuck an arm around her to pose her however he so damn well pleased it seemed. She glowered at him over her shoulder. He glowered back. Still looking a bit ridiculous.. 

He stood behind her now and his foot nudged her right one back, then her left one forward a little, before he seemed satisfied with his work and returned to his spot on her right.

“It is not fair, remember? I am left handed.”

“Can the chatter and focus.”

Her teeth clicked shut.  _ ’Oaf.’ _

His hand ghosted against her back, until the warm touch of his palm urged her to lean into the gun. Then his fingers tapped at her once and she squeezed the trigger.

The kickback fucking hurt. It jarred her shoulder and jolted the bones in her arms and she swore she was shifted backwards half a step. But she’d done it. She’d missed terribly, peppering the arm of the target with a few stray holes, while-as Redfield had decimated the thing’s centre. 

But she’d done it and she went right back to battering her shoulder five more times. By the last one Redfield’s arm came up and he picked the weapon from her hands while she tore the earmuffs off herself, rolled her shoulder and shook her right arm vigorously.

“How’d you like it?” He asked and all she could come up with was a quick, toothy grin. His hand came up to rest against her nape. It squeezed and brought an encouraging “Good girl,” with it that held two of her heartbeats hostage. 

“Now I’ll show you how to secure it and then we’ll move on to the M4. Sound good?”

“Mh.”

The hand squeezed a little tighter.

“Yessir.”


End file.
